


we all know how to hit the mark

by qwanderer



Series: Old Friends of Mozzie's [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, White Collar
Genre: Crack, Gen, Pre-Avengers (2012), SO, a bit at least, a mixed bag, although there's also philosophizing about death, fanon Clint Barton, takes place during White Collar season 1, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6308617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mozzie... may have miscalculated, leaving those two alone together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we all know how to hit the mark

**Author's Note:**

> whoops I spent most of the day writing this I had things to do I hope y'all are happy

Moz rushed through the last of his errands, trying to get to the safehouse before Neal, just in case his two friends didn't get along with each other as well as they both got along with him. 

He'd meant to be there to smooth the way between the two. Although Neal could mostly do his own smoothing, being charming and polished wasn't going to get him very far with someone like Clint. 

* * *

Once upon a time, when the Dentist of Detroit (the original one) was at the height of his reign, he had people lining up to work for him, to do his jobs, large or small, clean or dirty. But he had only one guy he trusted for wetwork, and that was an assassin known as Hawkeye. 

The two of them had something in common - very few people had seen their faces. A handful of the Dentist's trusted lieutenants, and each other. 

Because they'd caught on fairly quickly to that one crucial secret about each other. They were only children. Competent, hardened, streetwise, but still. 

Hawkeye was sixteen. The Dentist, seventeen. 

But that wasn't why the Dentist liked Hawkeye so much, trusted him with the jobs that needed doing. It was because he respected Hawkeye's abilities, not just his marksmanship, but his discretion, the silence of the bow, the lack of collateral damage in his jobs, and the fact that if there was a smarter way to achieve the goal, one that didn't involve killing, Hawkeye was all for that. 

The shared secret certainly didn't hurt. 

* * *

That morning, Mozzie had gotten an unexpected call from an old friend. One he hadn't seen in years. But he'd known this friend for long enough, before that, that he still trusted the man. 

That was a hard place to get to, with Mozzie. But Clint Barton was just the kind of person who could do it. 

_Meet me at our old safehouse?_ the message had said. _I need some things._ There followed a list of some obscure items that Mozzie did, in fact, know how to track down. 

Probably. 

He hadn't been to that particular safehouse since the feds had started to close in on Neal - there were certain connections that didn't need to be made - but he'd kept track of it from afar, and it seemed to be secure. 

Moz had responded in the positive. But he'd asked, _Going off reservation, or should I consider this a favor for the Man, as well?_

_It's sanctioned. No need for special precautions - speed over secrecy. I just need the stuff._

Which was really just as well, because the next text Mozzie got, on a different phone, of course, was from Neal. 

_Need your help authenticating some gems. It's urgent. Lives at stake._

Moz sighed. 

_Current errands also urgent. Meet me._ He gave Neal the address of the safehouse. It'd show up in Neal's tracking data, and the place would be burned, but he and Clint could make other arrangements for next time. 

It wasn't, after all, a particularly _nice_ safehouse, as safehouses went. 

And he wasn't sure it would be a simple delivery - Clint tended to show up bruised and in need of a meal and some medical attention, more often than not. 

But he was having second thoughts about letting these two parts of his life intersect. Especially if Clint's list ended up being harder to complete than he expected, and Neal showed up well before Mozzie did. 

Two ex-criminals meeting for the first time in a safehouse, with no reason to trust each other except a mutual acquaintance. What could go wrong? 

* * *

Neal approached the door thoughtfully. He could hear someone moving around inside, so he knocked. 

A voice that wasn't Mozzie's (much deeper and gruffer, dare he think it, thuggish) said, "What's the password?" 

Neal decided to take a guess. "I saw a mockingbird in the park?" 

Clint opened the door. "Well, it's been a while since I've seen Bobbi, but you do seem to know Moz." He waved Neal inside and locked the door again. 

Neal raised his eyebrows as he looked around. "I thought our friend said this was one of his safehouses, but outside of me and Kate, he isn't usually the sharing type." 

"Well technically this is one of mine, an' I don't share much, but I share this one with him," the very well-built blond man said, giving Neal a once-over. "And now you, I guess. Thought he was gonna meet me himself." 

Neal winced slightly. 

* * *

Moz spent his journey mulling over the problem of what it was, exactly, about his former best friend and his current best friend meeting that he was worried about. 

Possibly it was about how much trouble they could each get into if left unsupervised, and whether, if they were left alone together, they would count as supervision or encouragement. That was a distinct possibility. 

And yet the last time Moz had seen Clint, he'd seemed to be past that. 

Mostly. 

They were too alike, was what it was, maybe, and yet they'd ended up on radically different paths. In some ways. When Mozzie had met Neal, he'd recognized Clint in those blue eyes, halfway tired and aged beyond their years, halfway full of boyish jokes and daring. And as they got to know each other, the parallells kept cropping up. 

When Neal had gotten himself arrested, when he took a deal with the feds in exchange for getting out of prison, when he'd jeopardized that deal by trying to save a woman from his old life... it was Clint all over again. 

But then there were the ways in which they were different. 

They were both showmen more than criminals and, at heart, either one over killers, but Neal had had so much more luck, in some ways, so many more options. He'd had Ellen looking out for him, making sure he did okay in school, encouraging him to pursue his art. And although the time came when Neal found himself looking at his options and seeing only crime, he had more skills that would fetch a good price on the black market. When Clint had come to the same conclusions, the only thing he'd seen in his future was death. 

Neal had never been that low. 

Mozzie loved both of them like younger brothers, and for a lot of the same reasons, but when it came down to it, he didn't know whether Neal would look in Clint's eye and see what the older man's life had made him and be disgusted, or afraid. 

As Mozzie approached the door, he heard voices, maybe raised a little, and a faint clattering. He let himself in quickly. 

The rich smell of tomato sauce hit him first, and then he began to register the words of the argument. 

"We can't use that rosemary," he heard a familiar voice assert. "It smells like it's halfway to being mummified." Neal's nose crinkled a little as he said this. 

"Yeah, I know," Clint answered. "Trust me on this, okay? Just toss it all in, it'll still help more'n it'll hurt. With canned food, you've gotta take your flavor however it comes." 

Neal frowned at him doubtfully, but he dumped the little jar out over the pot and clattered the lid back on pointedly. "If that backfires, you're paying for takeout," he told Clint. 

They seemed to be getting along all right, all things considered. Clint had a beer bottle in hand and Neal held a highball of wine. The glassware selection of the place left something to be desired, but the wine would be getting to the point where it really needed drinking. Moz reached for his own glass and the bottle, smelling the wine admiringly. When it came to wine, he was rarely patient enough to do his own aging, but when he'd last stocked this place, his budget had been limited and he hadn't known when he'd next be using the place. 

"Hey, Moz," they said simultaneously, then looked at each other through narrowed eyes. 

"Your items," Mozzie said to Clint. "There was a delay in getting some of the blessed things - I had to find someone to bless them, and it's after priestly business hours. Please rest assured that I have no need to know what you're using them for." He handed Clint a large plastic shopping bag, then turned to Neal, hand out. "The gemstones?" 

Neal handed over a box containing three identical looking earrings. "At least one of those is faked," he told Mozzie, "but they're supposed to be a pair of Tiffany pieces. I have my suspicions, but I'm not sure. Thought you might be able to confirm, and maybe give me some idea who forged the others?" 

Moz looked at them. "They're good," he said. "I'd say me, except, well, A), you're here to report back to the Suit, and B), I didn't." He got out a magnifier to look them over more closely. "I might have to ask around for names," he said, "but only one of these is real. One of your pair is missing." 

"That's what I thought," Neal said. "Just needed to be sure before we risk chasing after it. Whoever it is, they're new on the scene, and they're nervous. Jumpy." 

"Never a good thing," Moz commiserated. But then he looked hard at both of them. "I still think it's not entirely advisable for you two to do what you do," he said. "The only thing worse than sending men with guns up against kids with guns is sending men without guns up against them instead. Both of you work with armed agents, walk into danger like this on a routine basis, and you still refuse to carry?" 

"I don't like guns," they both said in near unison. Then they eyed each other, Clint thoughtful, Neal slightly disturbed. 

"But that doesn't mean..." Neal trailed off as he saw Clint's mouth open to speak again. 

"...I don't know how to use 'em," Clint finished, smirking now. 

"Starting to get the feeling I'm a stand-in for someone else," Neal muttered. 

"Oh, you're no Hawkeye," Mozzie said, and watched Neal's eyebrows climb as he recognized the name. "But you're one of a kind, _mon frere._ Clint has no appreciation for good wine, as I'm sure you've noticed." 

Neal stared at Clint. "You're an assassin who doesn't like guns?" 

Clint shrugged. "You're a thief and a racketeer - " 

"Allegedly," Neal cut in. 

" - who doesn't like guns," Clint finished, undeterred. "I don't see how that's any stranger." 

"You _kill_ people," Neal pointed out. 

Clint narrowed his eyes at the younger man. "And your work never gets messy?" 

"I never set out to get anybody hurt." 

Clint took a deep breath. "Look. I do what I have to do. I don't always like it, okay? But sometimes it's the only choice I can make. You've never needed to protect yourself or someone else by takin' a life? Then you're lucky. But when you go in with the feds, you get snipers at your back, right? Agents with guns at your side? They make things better? They make you feel safe? Think of me like one o' them, but with a weapon no one but me can fire. A gun, it's point and shoot. Anyone can pick it up and do damage. My weapon? Just a little harder to just pick up and use. About seventy pounds of draw harder." 

This was the moment Mozzie had been dreading. The Neal he'd known the last few years wouldn't have understood that. 

But this Neal, the one who had worked beside Peter for nearly a year, the one who was well on his way to trusting the agent with all the power at his disposal, just nodded. 

"Okay," Neal said. "I get that." 

Just then there was a knock at the door. 

"Expecting anyone else, Moz?" Clint asked. 

"No," Moz said. "I'd say someone's pulling on your leashes." He went to answer the door, lifting the flap to look out the peephole. "Yup," he said. "We've got suits." 

"That's probably my handler," the other two said simultaneously - _again_ \- and then raised eyebrows at each other. 

"Well, you know I'm a consultant with the FBI," Neal said. "What are you doing these days?" 

"Specialist for SHIELD," Clint said with a smile as both the anticipated handlers walked through the door. "And this is Agent Phil Coulson. Phil, meet Neal Caffrey." 

"I thought SHIELD was one of Moz's crazy conspiracy theories." Neal eyed the Coulson guy. 

Barton just looked at him. "Oh, trust me, Moz is right about... more than half of those." He hefted his shopping bag. "Got the stuff," he told Phil. "Can't use it 'til moonrise, though. Wanna stay for dinner? Neal cooked." 

"Safehouse leftovers. The rosemary is entirely Clint's responsibility. Good or bad." 

Phil looked around at the gathering and smiled. "I'll chance it," he said. 

"Neal," said Peter, "I don't know exactly what you've gotten involved in here, but you'd better have those earrings." 

"I've got one of them," Neal said brightly. "And two fakes. No leads yet, but we need to go after these guys if we want the originals back. They really are top quality forgeries, though. I'm sure the owners wouldn't have noticed the switch." 

"And you needed to come here for that because..." 

"My source was here," Neal told him, without specifying Mozzie. "It's inside my radius!" 

"You took valuable evidence," Peter growled. "Without asking me, without even telling me where you were going." 

"I was going to give it back!" Neal told him. "Look, here. There you go." Neal slid it into his jacket pocket and patted it neatly. "It's right there." 

"I didn't know where it was. For hours." 

"You sound grumpy, Peter. Have you eaten? There's food. I know you like Italian." 

Clint raised his head from where he was draining the spaghetti. "Hey, Moz, do we even have five chairs in this place? There's only three in here." 

"We've got four," Mozzie called. "Would anyone like a footstool instead?" 

Dinner was... interesting. 

Clint volunteered to take the footstool. 

Neal quickly learned that it was much harder to needle Clint's handler than his own. Mozzie knew that this was because Phil Coulson had built up a resistance through years of exposure to Clint. 

At least Phil appreciated the wine. 

As everyone left and Mozzie prepared to strip the place of all evidence of their presence, Clint stuck behind to chat. 

"So your new best friend signed up for an agency deal too? And you're just letting all these suits in one of your safehouses? I'm shocked, Moz." 

"It's more your safehouse than mine," Moz said, inclining his head. "And besides, I might not like shadowy government agencies, but that doesn't mean I don't know how to use them." 

Clint gave a bark of laughter. "I s'pose that's one way of looking at it," he told the smaller man, clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't be a stranger, okay, Moz? I might be based in the city for a while so I got a place over in Bed-Stuy. Got a dog an' everything." He grinned, and Mozzie could feel the old charm working, rough as it was. 

"Oh, great, you're turning into Neal's Suit. I'll just do the rounds, stop by at the Suit household in Fort Greene on my way back!" 

The terrible thing was, even Mozzie wasn't sure if he was being entirely sarcastic. 

"You know, Dante, there are worse things to be than a suit." 

"Yeah, yeah, Hawkeye," Moz replied with a sigh. "I know." 


End file.
